


Fading In (Faded Out)

by Sir_Bedevere



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Aftercare, And Dark!Valjean is kind of the same, Blow Jobs, Crying, Dark!Valjean, Dom!Valjean, Dubious Consent, Hand Jobs, Light Bondage, M/M, Nothing horrific happens here, Post-Seine, Quite a lot of crying, Sub!Javert, The dub/con is threatened more than it actually happens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-28
Updated: 2016-07-28
Packaged: 2018-07-27 08:50:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7611535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sir_Bedevere/pseuds/Sir_Bedevere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Javert, Valjean, a game taken too far and the horror of memories from times long gone by.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fading In (Faded Out)

**Author's Note:**

> All my thanks to Vana, my Porn Sensai, who is solely responsible for the fact I even write this shit and is my greatest cheerleader. Also to jehane18, my Valvert Amigo, who betaed this crap and did it quick too :D

The first he knew of it was a hand on his knee, resting lightly against the bone but doing nothing more. It was not so unusual these days – Valjean often touched him so, innocent and chaste touches. Javert glanced at his companion and saw no sign in his face that he was even truly aware of what he was doing. 

Turning back to his plate, Javert speared the last potato on his plate and shoved it into his mouth. He knew he should be listening to old Gillenormand, but he could not bring himself to care about the man’s charitable pursuits. This was just another dull fund-raising dinner. It would have been much better for Gillenormand just asking his wealthy friends to donate the price of a plate without going to the bother of actually organising anything. Since Valjean was now on that list of friends and acquaintances, Javert somehow found himself dragged to all such events. He could not truly complain, however. Any evening in Valjean’s company was not one entirely wasted.

He shook himself and tried to focus on what Gillenormand was saying. He succeeded for a few seconds. Then the hand began to move. He barely noticed it at first, just a small caress with the thumb that felt as though it were designed to soothe him a little.

The tablecloth covered his leg and Valjean’s hand entirely, where they had taken to their customary corner, but still Javert started when the hand began to squeeze, first at the knee and then moving upwards, soft caresses of his thigh that still felt gentle enough to be nothing more than calming. Valjean was still not looking at him, but Javert realised that it was a very resolute thing, that he was very definitely Not Looking. As the thought struck him that it was an odd behaviour indeed for Valjean, a tip of a finger brushed lightly against his crotch, before sneaking back down his thigh. He jumped and then looked about guiltily; no one was paying him the slightest attention, even Valjean. He had almost convinced himself it was an accident when it happened again, and this time the finger lingered, unmoving but very firmly pressed against him just there.

Without thinking, he moved his legs together, or at least he tried to, because Valjean moved at lightning speed beneath the table, trapping Javert’s left leg and keeping him firmly open and exposed. The finger returned, with tiny, stuttering strokes against his prick. Feeling the blood rise in his face, he looked at Valjean once more, to find a small, peculiar smile had spread across his face. He was determined to play the innocent, was he? Well, Javert could play at that game just as well as Valjean could.

Swallowing against the lump in his throat and forcing himself to concentrate solely on Gillenormand, Javert fought against that small, relentless pressure that threatened to end the game prematurely. He would not give Valjean the satisfaction.

The speech seemed to last an age, more so that Javert was actually listening, anything to distract from Valjean’s fingertip rubbing against his prick. He was hard, that he could not help, but he succeeded in refraining from sweating or trembling too much, at least to begin with. He must have been convincing enough, for even though his heart raced so that he thought he would burst, there was still no one paying him the slightest bit of attention.

The speech ended and murmurs began to fill the room, their fellow guests turning back to their plates as the servants hurried out to clear them away. Valjean’s hand moved suddenly, until his whole hand covered Javert’s prick. He squeezed and Javert could not help himself; he half leapt from his chair, earning him a strange look from their companions at the small table, one of them whose eyes lingered longer, and Javert found a mumbled excuse on his lips.

“Forgive me, monsieurs. A mouse perhaps, run over my foot.”

When the prying eyes were turned aside, Javert looked to Valjean. He was talking kindly to the man cleaning the table, both hands resting innocently beside his plate. His foot remained, holding Javert open. Javert’s trousers strained. He was trapped.

“Are you well, Javert?” Valjean finally turned to look at him, “You’re sweating. Surely it is not so warm in here?”

“Quite well, thank you,” Javert ground out between his teeth, “Although perhaps I will remove my coat.”

“Allow me,” Valjean murmured, on his feet with hands resting on Javert’s shoulders. He dug his thumbs into the back of Javert’s neck, into the spot that always made him shiver, a sharp contrast to the gentleness of his fingers beneath the table, and Javert felt a fresh pulse in his prick. Whatever devil had taken hold of Valjean was a cruel one, and he would not allow it the satisfaction of winning. He took the moment to press his legs together, tight as his cock could bear, and it eased a little. Valjean pushed his coat from his shoulders, hands rubbing daringly down his arms as he did so, and handed it to the servant. Javert, in naught but shirtsleeves and waistcoat, felt undressed; he did not usually go about so in public. Valjean was trying to undo him, here, for all to witness.

He was allowed a little respite then; Valjean seemed almost normal, save for the amused glint in his eye, and Javert thought that it was over, his lover’s odd flight of fancy. His prick softened a little, till he was almost comfortable, and he spoke a little with the man seated beside him. Then, when the dessert plates arrived and everyone was once more focused on their own affairs, Javert felt Valjean’s hand once more on his knee. Javert braced himself against Valjean’s strength, did not allow him access again, so Valjean chuckled low in his throat and settled for sliding his palm up until it rested over Javert’s prick once more. He worked at it until his finger had once more inserted itself between his legs. He did not move it for several long minutes and then began those tiny torturous strokes once more. Javert could not help the embarrassing noise that escaped his throat, a high pitched squeak. 

“Are you well, monsieur?”

The sole woman at their table watched him closely, concern painting her face with furrows. 

“Thank you, madame, quite well,” he said, amazed his voice did not tremble as Valjean found, in that moment, the weeping head of his cock. He could not get the leverage to squeeze, thankfully, for Javert thought that if he had, he would have spent himself there and then.

Valjean must have found more dampness there than he desired, for the movement stopped and although his hand continued to rest atop Javert, he found that he could bear the gentle warmth easily. Valjean was not yet so taken by this demon that he would allow Javert the indignity of spending in a room of society vultures. Javert accepted the weight of his hand for the rest of dessert, for the wine, the port, the cheese that came after that and although he did not soften entirely, he was able to stand without embarrassing himself when the time came, finally, to say their goodbyes. 

“Come,” Valjean said, helping Javert into his coat with nothing but the most innocent of touches, “Let us find Cosette and then depart.”

This was the Valjean he knew, the one he had left the house with earlier that evening. Here was the quiet and faithful man that everyone believed they knew. Only Javert knew the real Valjean, the many facets of character that made him just so.

The uncle, forced to theft by starving children when he was barely more than a child himself.

The convict that man had become, a beast so strong he wore double chains, a beast who did the work of three men on the food of one and had the power to fight too, to run, eventually running to the arms of an angel.

The mayor, a good and kind official, brought into the light, who used that animal strength instead to drag an entire town away from poverty and on the path to prosperity. 

The father, a man of justice and gentleness, who raised a child he did not sire, and who forgave the hunter who would have seen him back in chains. 

The lover, with soft lips and clever fingers, who performed his greatest trick of all when he taught his hunter to be a human, to understand his own heart, to touch another without hate or fear.

Javert knew this man and he trusted him, no matter the things his hands may do beneath tables. Surely it was no demon that possessed him, only Valjean there to teach him something new, and Javert followed him through the crowd with a lighter step and heart despite Valjean’s games that night. 

Cosette found them first, threading through the press of well-wishers and emptied tables, Marius following her as faithfully as Javert followed Valjean. She was her father’s daughter, for sure; Javert had thought this from the moment he met her and her husband’s devotion was only further proof that she had learned well from Valjean. It was difficult to resist their pull. 

“Papa,” she smiled, giving him her hand. Valjean kissed it, and Javert nodded to Marius’, who hung back and allowed them their moment. 

The boy returned the gesture. His face was flushed, a sure sign of a little too much indulgence, and Javert reflected that on any other night Valjean would comment upon it when they were alone, more unkindly than one would think he was capable of. Tonight though, distracted as he seemed to be, Javert thought that the boy might get away with it. 

“Monsieur Javert,” Cosette said, and Javert turned sharply. She was looking at him patiently and he realised she must have already spoken to him and he had ignored her, “Are you well, monsieur? Papa says you were a little too warm in your corner.”

“Very well, thank you, madame,” he stammered, eyes darting to Valjean’s face, a face made carefully blank save for a peculiar blaze in his eyes, before dropping to the floor, “The dinner was – very nice. Thank you for the invitation.”

“You are always welcome, monsieur,” she said, reaching to press his hand, as her husband voiced his agreement, “You know that.”

She had long grown used to his inability to chat aimlessly and took his awkward compliments as well as if he had written her a verse. In his turn he had become familiar with her willingness to welcome him into her family and accepted her acknowledgements with a good grace that he had to carve out of himself, slow and painful as chipping at rock. Sometimes he would dare to look at her when she smiled at him and try to read something there, to see if she understood his true place in her world, the life he shared with her father, but he had no skill with such things and she gave nothing away. 

“We must be going, my dear,” Valjean kissed her cheek and shook Marius’ hand, “The weather is likely to turn and I would like to take a carriage tonight. I do not feel like walking.”

A delicious thrill ran up Javert’s spine. Valjean always preferred to walk, no matter the weather or the time of night, and it was not a long journey home. If he wished to take a carriage tonight, there had to be another reason for it. When Valjean winked at him, eyes flashing, Javert knew precisely what that reason could be. 

Monsieur Gillenormand had ordered a number of carriages to arrive as the dinner was finishing, and Valjean did not hang back as he ordinarily did. They took their place in the queue of guests and Javert allowed Valjean to hand him up when their turn came; he could hardly refuse, when usually Valjean was so careful about guarding their secrets in public. No one looked at them twice. They were only two old men after all, old men tired at the end of a long day. Not one of them would guess what Valjean was hiding behind his mild expression.  
Valjean gave the driver the address and climbed in, accepting Javert’s hand in return to pull himself up. He slammed the door and immediately pulled the blind closed. Before Javert could speak, to demand explanation, Valjean came upon him, pushing him into the corner of the seat, mouth against his. There was nothing gentle in the kiss, Valjean’s tongue demanding entry when he usually asked so sweetly, and all Javert could do was grasp at Valjean’s coat and allow himself to be kissed so. When Valjean bit his lip, Javert tasted his own blood in his mouth. He had tasted blood the night of the barricades. The thought was not a happy one.

“Jean,” he gasped, as those lips began to pepper tiny kisses down his neck, hands scrambling at his cravat, tugging it until it came loose, and when that mouth closed over his fluttering pulse and sucked, Javert could not stop the upwards jerk of his hips.  
Valjean chuckled, deep and gravelly in his ear, and rewarded him by grinding his own hips down, until Javert was left in no doubt that he was not alone in the aching. 

“Jean, what-” he caught the roving hands, pinning them down, “What devil has got a hold of you tonight?”

“I could not help myself,” Valjean said, breathless, smiling with teeth stained with the faintest trace of Javert’s blood, “You do not know what you look like, done up so tightly in your dinner jacket. I had the urge-” he grinned, and pushed his hips against his once more, earning a moan from Javert, “I had the need to test you. To see how far you would bend.”

These were not new, Valjean’s tests. He had taken to love like a bird to the air, late in life to be sure, but eager to please. He would wring every last ounce of Javert’s pleasure from him, single minded and thoughtful like was in all things. He used his mouth, his hands, his hips – these were his bows of choice and Javert was his strings, to be played as Valjean saw fit. It had taken some time before Javert was able to touch Valjean in the same way, selfish as he was and crippled with fear, but Valjean did not seem to mind it. He was patience personified, and, in moments like this, Javert could not help but wonder what pleasure Valjean took from having him like this. There must be something, for he was always satisfied. 

“We are not young men,” Javert mumbled, as Valjean pulled back a little, to allow him room to breathe, “Pray tell me how much longer it would have been before you took me for the whole room to witness?”

“Would you have preferred that I did?” Valjean licked his ear, heel of his hand pressing on Javert’s cock, gentle at first and then harder, until Javert writhed in his seat.

“Not – not here. Please, Jean.”

“The ‘please’ was a magic word, the only one they had ever needed between them. Valjean settled himself beside Javert, taking his hand and resting his head on Javert’s shoulder, but doing nothing more. Valjean had pushed him these past years, mind and body, to limits that Javert would never have dreamed existed, but he had never ignored that word. 

And there had been times it was a close run thing. Javert did not doubt the power still in Valjean’s body.

The rest of the journey passed quietly, even if Valjean at his side made him burn with anticipation. Javert was almost at his limit, taken as far as he could go, and his plea would only have confirmed that to Valjean, if he did not know it already. He probably did; Javert turned to look upon his partner’s face and found only peace there. He had never been able to read Valjean’s thoughts, unless Valjean intended it, so such a look of serenity did not mean a thing. The fire in his eyes, the blood on his teeth…they were not signs the guard Javert would once have ignored in a man of such strength and resolve. His stomach churned and he did not know why.

Javert hung back when they pulled up at home, allowing Valjean to get out and settle the debt. He always had a kind word for all people, even those who were already in receipt of his money and should have been due no further niceties. Javert had no skill with such things. He was all too aware that his presence did not put people at ease. 

“Come,” Valjean leaned back into the carriage, holding out a hand, “Let us go inside.”

Javert did not make eye contact with the driver as he climbed out; the man’s eyes lingered as they made their way up the path to the door. He was surely only looking because Valjean paid him well and he was grateful, the least he could do making sure his charges get inside safely. All drivers of decent spirit did it. Javert could not help but think though, uncharitably, that the man heard them or that he saw something, the odd crease of Javert’s trousers as he climbed into the carriage that threatened to give him away even now, or the disarray of his cravat. Perhaps he was laughing, behind his mild expression. 

No. He must stop thinking such terrible thoughts. Valjean never thought the worst of people who have not earned it and he walked with ease now, no shame or indignation weighing heavily on his strong shoulders. Javert applies himself to studying that broad back instead, as they pause to allow Valjean to fumble for the key in a hidden pocket. Valjean did indeed seem relaxed, as he had done all evening, although there was a kind of tension to be found in his posture, if one looked close enough, and he was dragging his leg more as he walked. Javert remembered, with a rising blush, that Valjean had been as hard as he and the delay had probably only made him more so. The idea struck Javert that in making Valjean wait, there would be a penalty to be paid in this game. 

As soon as the front door closed behind him, Javert closed his eyes, braced himself, for a touch that never came. Instead Valjean removed his coat and ambled into the kitchen without a word, whistling between his teeth in the way that he knew always set Javert on edge. Confused and more than a little frustrated, Javert shrugged out of his own coat and followed warily. Valjean’s mood was certainly a changeable thing this evening. It was…intriguing and even as the word came unbidden into his mind, Javert knew he was already damned.  
Valjean was moving around the kitchen, stoking the fire that Toussaint had left to burn low and filling the kettle to put on it. He turned briefly and pointedly glanced down, smirking when he saw that Javert was still suffering from his ministrations, then going back to his tea. Javert watched him, noted that Valjean’s own trousers were no longer betraying him, and shivered, despite the warmth of the flames. 

“Jean?”

“Would you like some tea?”

Javert growled and moved closer, grabbing Valjean’s arm and forcing him to look at him. Valjean was laughing, then he twisted out of Javert’s grip with barely a shake of his arm and shoved him backwards, until Javert’s back was against the wall. Lips and teeth pressed once more to his throat, to the skin exposed by his collar, useless now his cravat had been pulled away. Valjean finished the job, unravelling the material, until it hung limp in his hand. Javert lifted both hands to Valjean’s face, to hold him in place as he tried to regain some control of the kiss, and Valjean allowed him it, for a moment or two. Then, so quickly it was over, he brought the cravat up and wrapped it around Javert’s forearms and down to his wrists, once, twice, thrice, then knotted, so he still had long ends to grip onto. He dragged Javert’s arms above his head and licked the long length of his neck, a knee coming up to rest between Javert’s legs. He was pinned. 

“J-Jean. What – what are you doing?” he managed to ask, before Valjean pushed his knee upwards, hard and unrelenting, and forced a moan from him, a noise that Javert was not sure he had ever made before. 

“Do you like it?” Valjean growled, pulling back a little. He looked debauched, lips red and swollen, hair a mess, and Javert knew that he must  
look even worse. 

“I-” he choked, as Valjean thrust his free hand down between them and stroked roughly over Javert, as if to convince himself that all was well, “Jean, I-”

“What do you want?”

A light stroke then, not nearly enough. 

“Jean, t-touch me.”

“I am touching you.”

“More. Jean – more.”

Valjean’s eyes went dark, no trace of the blue left as he gazed upon his handiwork. He lowered Javert’s arms but kept hold of the ends of the cravat, twisting them sharply in his hands till the silk began to dig in to Javert’s wrists. Javert made a soft noise and Valjean loosened them a little, black eyes coming back to Javert’s face.

“It is time for bed.”

And he led Javert upstairs, by the wrists, as Javert himself had lead so many men to their fates. 

Valjean left him standing in the middle of the bed chamber as he moved about the room, lighting candles, stoking the fire, pulling back the bed clothes. Once again, he moved with deliberate slowness and did not look at Javert. As the minutes ticked by, Javert began to feel a familiar ache in his shoulders, a twinge that took him back to the barricade, to the indignity of being bound by those boys and found in such a state by Jean Valjean. If Valjean…enjoyed him like this, hands ties and helpless, had he found pleasure in seeing Javert like this on that night? The question was on his lips when Valjean turned back to him, finally, and took a step or two closer until Javert had to bend his neck to look Valjean in the eye.

“How are your arms?” Valjean said, reaching out but not quite touching, “Do they hurt?”

“A little,” Javert conceded, “Nothing I could not endure.”

“You have only worn them for a moment. I was once held like this for days. The pain – I will never forget it.”

“I am sorry,” Javert said, the thousandth apology he had made to Valjean even as he knew it would never be enough, “No prisoner was meant to be secured like that for long.”

Valjean, normally so quick to tell him he was blameless, that he was only ever doing his job, did not seem to be listening. 

“I thought I would never be able to use my left hand again, after that. They beat me when I could not break so many stones as they wanted.”

In the silence of the room, Javert fancied he could hear the crash of the sea in his ears, the music of Toulon. Perhaps he could. Perhaps it was only the roar of his own blood, pounding in his head, as he looked upon a man he was not sure he knew anymore.

“I had you bound like this before,” Valjean murmured, fingers tracing the silk of the cravat, “Do you remember?”

“How could I not?”

Javert had never told Valjean he still dreamed of the barricade sometimes, of the uncontrollable animal fear, the fear that he would die there and these rebels would win. He remembered the rope, cutting into his wrists, tight around his neck, tighter at his cock; the indignity of being tied to a table made only worse by the trap that made him hard, embarrassingly hard, and how much worse it became the moment that Valjean walked into the room.

“I could have had you that night,” Valjean said, voice so low that Javert had to strain to hear the words, and then his large hands came to grip Javert by the forearms, so hard that he would have bruises, “You would not have been able to stop me. Just as I could not stop them.  
What they did to me.”

Valjean looked up briefly and Javert knew for sure that Jean was lost in memories of Toulon. He looked back to Javert’s wrists, thumbs pressed into the fluttering pulses at his wrists and bared his teeth, feral.

“Would you have tried to resist me, Javert?”

It was almost too much. Javert, despite the heat of the built up fire, shivered. He hurt, and not only in his arms. He had been hard for hours and Valjean’s words pierced his heart. He had not dared to think that the monster still lived, buried deep inside the man he loved. And now Javert was held by a memory that had made the beast’s heart stir once more.

“I – I do not know.”

To his own ears, Javert sounded his normal self, but his captor looked up again, sharply, releasing his fingers from Javert’s wrists. Perhaps Valjean had heard something there, through the fog of Toulon that had descended in the room, something that Javert could not detect.

“Javert. You are weeping.”

He felt it then; what he had taken for sweat running down his face was actually tears. He squeezed his eyes shut, cursing his weak heart.  
Valjean started at him, aghast, and then began to shake his head, frantic fingers pulling at the knot in the cravat until it came loose, and then he was on his knees, kissing Javert’s abused wrists.

“Javert, I am so sorry. Forgive me – please, please forgive me.”

To Javert’s disgust, he could not reply. He heard himself sob and moved blindly, threading gentle fingers into Valjean’s hair, running trembling fingers over Valjean’s face as that man did a penance at his feet that Javert did not deserve.

“Javert, speak to me.”

Valjean pressed his face to Javert’s wrist and through his thin shirt he felt a dampness there that could only be more tears. He would not make Valjean weep.

“Jean, get up,” he croaked, “Stand, please.”

He did as he was bade, and Javert was pleased to find him wet eyed but not succumbed to childish weeping as he was. Valjean swept another strand of Javert’s hair behind his ear and then kissed him, gentle, tentative, moreso than anything else they had done that night. The beast was gone. Javert allowed Valjean’s tongue entry and he sighed with relief, as though he had not been sure he would be welcomed. His fingers began to work at Javert’s waistcoat buttons and Javert let him. They knew this. He knew this.

“I am not that man,” Valjean said, as he pushed Javert’s waistcoat away and began at once on his shirt, tugging it over Javert’s head and hurling it away, “I am not him. I would never – Javert, I would never force you.”  
Javert could not breathe, as he was kissed and kissed and kissed, until Valjean pulled far away enough to fumble at his own clothing, until the pair of them stood in only trousers and Javert could bring himself to speak.

“Jean – Jean, please-”

“Anything.”

“Touch me, Jean. Touch me.”

Valjean’s eyes widened and he seemed to notice for the first time since they came upstairs that Javert was, despite it all, still in a state of painful arousal.

“You still want – Javert, we do not have to.”

“Please.”

Valjean growled and fumbled at the laces of Javert’s trousers until, finally, he had his hand on his cock. Javert could feel his own heat, pulsing, frantic, as Valjean helped him backwards until they reached the bed. He could not breathe, still, the air thick with fire and Valjean, but when Valjean began to move his hand, Javert gasped and pushed up with his hips, desperate in way he never liked to be. It did not seem to matter now; Valjean traced the vein, fat with blood, and when he put his lips to the crown and sucked, Javert thought he might faint.  
He moaned and thrust into Valjean’s mouth, wantonly, giving himself more than he ever dared to take. Valjean took his mouth away and squeezed, his movements erratic, and when he rolled Javert’s balls in his other hand and licked a stripe up his shaft, that was it. Javert came, finally, finally, all over Valjean’s fist and his own stomach, and Valjean was on him immediately, licking the mess away from his hand, Javert’s stomach and Javert’s cock until Javert could bear no more and eased him away.

They lay in silence, panting, until Javert came back to himself and searched Valjean out, pulling him up from where his head rested on Javert’s stomach with hands that were steadier than before. Valjean came up slowly, his shame painted on his face like a mask. Javert longed to smooth it away.

“I am sorry I hurt you,” Valjean whispered, eyes barely able to meet Javert’s, “I thought – I thought I wanted you like that. Helpless. Trapped. I – I”

He was weeping then, and Javert reached out to kiss the tears away, which only made Valjean weep more. He put his hands out and took a gentle hold of Valjean’s forearms. 

“You did not hurt me, Jean. I was – I did not enjoy it but it was not you. I did –” Damn his stumbling tongue! “When you had me tied against the wall – I liked it. Just make sure it is you next time. Not the beast.”

“I thought I had him tamed,” Valjean allowed himself to be laid down and in turn wrapped his arms around Javert, forehead pressed to Javert’s shoulder blade, “But the sight of you – I just could not think. I would never force you.”

“I know.”

There was a moment or two of quiet where Valjean shuffled out of his trousers, kicking them off the bed and then it struck Javert, the thought, that they had forgotten something.

“Jean, did you-”

“When you asked me to touch you.”

“Ah.”

Silence. A beat of silence.

“I am sorry.”

“Do not be. We will try again. One day. We know better now.”

Now that his heart had slowed, the room was pleasantly warm, and with Valjean’s bulk behind him, Javert found sleep more readily than he  
was expecting to.

When he awoke, the candles and the fire had burned low, casting soft shadows on Valjean’s face, the face that he once again recognised. Javert pressed a light kiss to Valjean’s forehead and settled back at his side, timing his own breaths until they matched Valjean’s and they seemed but one creature, bound together once more.

**Author's Note:**

> One day I might write some sex where no one gets overwhelmed/no one cries, BUT IT IS NOT THIS DAY.


End file.
